


will you go to the dance with me?

by byronicmaiden



Category: Gotham (TV), The Loved Ones (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Blood and Gore, Horror, Implied/Referenced Incest, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Parent/Child Incest, The Loved Ones (2009) - Freeform, This is not a happy au, Torture, au where gertrud is just as fucked up as oswald bc why not, bad things happen, i can't believe this is my first contribution to the gotham fandom, jim i’m so sorry, lord help me i’m back on my bullshit of rewriting entire films, oh my!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 06:04:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14562483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byronicmaiden/pseuds/byronicmaiden
Summary: Prom night can be torture.—A Gobblepot AU based on the 2009 filmThe Loved Ones.





	will you go to the dance with me?

The last thing he remembered before it happened was the sun in his eyes, shining down as he lay on his back. The next was sickly chemicals pressed over his mouth and nose until he passed out.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, unable to make out his surroundings or form any coherent thoughts. He remembered that day, with Lee in the car, kissing and laughing. He remembered earlier, at his locker, Oswald Cobblepot tapping him on the shoulder. He was tiny, nervous, looked like a broken puppet, all bones and strings.

“Will you go to the dance with me?” He’d asked, his voice almost a whisper, fiddling with his hands and looking at the ground.

He‘d pulled his bag onto his shoulder, looked at the boy with sympathy and embarrassment, forced an awkward smile. “Oh- uh, sorry, Oswald. I’m already going with Lee.”

And he’d left him there, in the empty hallway, a broken expression on his face as Jim slipped off to be with Lee.

* * *

 In his state of almost-consciousness he could make out a voice, coming from above him.

“He looks dead,” a boy said. “Oh, you’ve ruined it! Mommy, you’ve killed him!”

Another voice, a woman’s with a thick accent, said, “I didn’t use that much.”

He felt fingers poking at his throat, feeling for his pulse, then felt someone wrap their arms around him, place their head on his chest and squeal, mimic his heartbeat, before everything went black.

* * *

 When he woke again, his hands were tied behind his back, his whole body slumping forward. Spinning lights whirred above him, sparkling across the room.

He struggled to lift his head and, through his blurred vision, saw a woman sitting at the head of the table, smiling, silent. He recognized her, recognized her wild blonde hair and dark-rimmed eyes. Another figure came into sight, sitting on the left side of the table, leaning forward and studying him.

Oswald Cobblepot narrowed his eyes at him, a tiny smile on his face. He remembered who the woman was; Gertrud Kapelput, who picked up her son from school, every single day. He looked to the right and saw they had another guest; a woman, thin as a skeleton, staring straight ahead, with dark auburn hair hanging in messy shreds, a small hole in her forehead.

“Good morning, Jim Gordon.” He said, still smiling. He was dressed nicely, so was his mother, and Jim was too; dressed in a suit he never bought. He squirmed, fought against the ropes, tried to wiggle his way through. The chair was nailed to the ground. He noticed Oswald and his mother exchange a smug smile, and she handed him a bottle of something blue. Jim blinked at him, at Gertrud Kapelput, who’s still smiling, and then noticed Oswald plucking a syringe from the table and filling it with blue, and then Gertrud was behind Jim, holding him by the shoulders with surprising strength.

“Oswald—“ He started, and Gertrud grabbed him by the jaw, holding him into place. Oswald smiled more, growing closer to him, syringe in hand.

He pressed the needle to Jim’s neck, not breaking the skin yet.

“Push harder, _fejedelem_.” Gertrud said, looking to her son, who did as he was told. The needle punctured his neck with a stabbing pain, like a red-hot bee sting as the liquid slipped into his veins. He tried to scream, but Gertrud covered his mouth and Oswald shushed him.

“We can’t hear you.” He said, his voice high and taunting as Jim’s eyes grew tired. He could barely keep his head up.

The next thing he knew, Oswald was sitting on his lap, propping up his head.

“Take a photo!” He said to his mother, who stood at the other end of the table, behind a camera.

“Say, “Happy End of School Dance!”

“Too big!”

“Say, “Happy!”

“Happy!” Oswald tilted his head to one side so Jim was visible and the camera flashed.

“One with Grace?” Gertrud asked, pointing to the other woman.

Oswald scowled. “Fine. But make it quick.”

Jim felt the weight of the other woman– Grace– fall onto his lap.

“Say–“

“Just take it!” Oswald snapped, and Gertrud obeyed.

After the second flash, Jim’s mind was blurry and gray. He couldn’t feel his arms, his face stung. Across the table, he heard a metal chair scrape over the floor.

* * *

“Make a wish,” He held a sticky wishbone out to his mother, snapped it in half. The larger half ended up in Gertrud’s hand.

Oswald looked down, his mouth twisting into a frown.

“My wish was for you, anyways, darling.” She said, putting her hand over his. He looked up, smiled at her.

“I wished for you, too.”

Gertrud patted his hand, lifted it to her lips and placed a kiss on it.

A long moment of silence before either spoke again.

“Who do you think looks better, me or Grace?” He asked, looking to his mother expectantly.

“Well–“ She started.

“Who do you think _Daddy_ would think looks better?” He turned towards Grace, narrowed his eyes at her.

Gertrud opened her mouth and shut it, looked down at her lap, unsure of herself.

“Grace, why aren’t you eating?” She asked. Attempting to change the subject.

“I hope you don’t get too skinny,” Oswald said, glaring at her. “Or else Daddy won’t like you anymore. Would he, Mommy?”

Gertrud shook her head while Oswald leaned across the table, forced sticky milk down Grace’s throat.

Jim clamped his mouth shut when Oswald attempted to force-feed him, shoving a chicken bone down in his throat, demanding he eat it. He gagged, felt the sharp bone stab into his throat. The fact he really needed to piss wasn’t helping his already unpleasant situation.

“No,” Oswald said, staring down at him. “Not until you show me you’re sorry.” He held out his finger to Jim’s lips, demanding he lick it.

“Show me!” He shouted, banging his fist against the table. Jim opened his mouth and Oswald slipped a finger inside, touching his tongue and the roof of his mouth until his head was lolled back, him moaning softly.

He yanked his finger back and knelt down in front of Jim, stared up at him with wide eyes. He undid Jim’s belt, unzipping his pants. Jim involuntarily jerked back and Oswald shushed him.

“Bring the hammer, Mommy.” He said. “And a nail.”

Jim swallowed hard, his eyes wide in fear.

“You have ten seconds to go,” Oswald said, his voice a low whisper. “Or Mommy nails it to the chair.”

Oswald’s hand was tight around his dick now, aiming it into an empty glass, an expectant look on his face.

“One. Two. Three.” He started, Gertrud behind them, hammer and nail in hand. “Four. Five. Six.” Jim felt like he was going to pass out. “Seven.” The hammer and nail got closer. He gritted his teeth. “Eight.” Oswald smiled. “Nine.”

“Aw, look at that,” Oswald said, running his fingers slightly above Jim’s dick, as he pissed into a cup like he was at the most demented doctor in the world. “It’s crying.” He stuck out his lower lip and almost looked legitimately disappointed.

“Do you want me to kiss it better?” He asked, lowering his lips closer to his dick, staring up at him with wide eyes. Jim tried to pull away and Oswald grabbed his thighs.

“Or maybe, I’ll bite it off so she can never kiss it again.” He snarled.

Jim looked at Gertrud, at Oswald, and felt blood rush to his crotch as Oswald got closer. He knew he wasn’t lying about biting him. A flash of Oswald on his knees, blood-stained teeth. He pulled his legs upwards, kicked Oswald in the chest, shoved him into the table.

“ _Fejedelem_!” Gertrud dropped the hammer, ran towards her son, gathering him up from the floor.

Jim tugged his pants back around his waist, scrambled up and out the door.

It was dark outside, cold air stinging his throat, his vision blurring as he tried to make out his prison, A tiny house in the middle of nowhere. His bones felt heavy from the drugs, everything was blurry and he could barely walk straight, especially with his hands still tied behind his back. Escape. He had to escape. Away from that house. And that boy.

He heard footsteps behind him and slipped underneath the car in the driveway, slid out when the engine started, finally breaking the ropes around his wrists.

Headlights flashed on and illuminated him. Gertrud, in the truck she presumably threw him in when dragging him there. He scrambled to his feet, started running as fast as he can, the car pursuing him through the yard, him tripping over dirt and his own feet. He made it to a tree, climbed up, the wood clawing his hands raw as he dragged his tired body upwards, clinging to the branches. He felt like a coward.

Gertrud’s truck slammed into the tree. She stood below him, looking up, circling. Another pair of footsteps padded across the gravel. Oswald.

“What happened?” His hair was a springy mess, an industrial-sized flashlight in his hands.

“Where’s Grace?”

“I put her in her room. She can’t get out.” He said, then aimed the flashlight up at the tree. At Jim. “Where is he?” A circle of light poured over him and he felt his heart stop. “There he is!” Oswald squealed.

“Keep it on him.” Gertrud said, and suddenly she’s flinging a rock at him. He dodged it and it bounced off the tree. He held on tighter. Another rock hit.

“Here, let me try.” Oswald said, handed his mother the flashlight and took a rock in his hand, fired it at Jim, and then two more, and then he laughed, a high and crazy laugh.

Gertrud handed him another rock, and this time, he hit his target. Jim lost his grip on the tree, dropping to the ground and smashing his head on Gertrud’s truck, his whole body going slack, like a doll.

* * *

It was mere minutes before he was tied up again, hands behind his back at the dinner table, just like before. Gertrud was yanking off his shoes and socks; Oswald was pouting at the table, arms folded like a child, staring at Jim.

Gertrud held a knife in one hand, the hammer in the other. She raised the hammer once, twice, and then slammed it against the back of the knife, driving the blade into Jim’s foot.

Jim screamed, an animalistic scream, like he’d been screaming for hours.

He felt someone straddle him and looked up, saw Oswald staring angrily down at him, sitting on his lap again, one leg on either side.

“My son likes you so much,” Gertrud said, raising the hammer again. “And you shouldn’t hit people who like you!” She drove the blade in deeper this time and Jim wailed, his head involuntarily falling into the crook of Oswald’s neck.

Oswald reached out and stroked his face, cupped it in his hands. “Cry.” He said, demanded. Jim refused and the knife went deeper. Blood pooling beneath his feet.

“Cryyyyy...” He taunted, drawing it out like a song. Jim stared up at him with dry eyes. “Cry!” He yelled again. Jim grit his teeth, his nostrils flare. Another whack of the hammer. He thought about Lee, about his mother. “Cry!” His jaw tightened in anger, and Jim thought of his father who died after swerving to avoid a stranger in the road.

“Cry!” He screamed at him, spit spraying from his mouth and landing on Jim’s face. The knife went deeper and Oswald fumed with anger. Jim screamed, but he didn’t cry.

* * *

 “That one is me,” Oswald said, pointing towards a stick figure drawn in purple marker, holding hands with another undefined figure. He held a heavy scrapbook in front of them; pink cover and glittery pages, full of gruesome photos and drawings. A Missing Persons flier was pasted to the next page.

“Theo Galavan,” He said, pointing to the boy on the flier. “Such a baby.”

He turned the page again. This time, they land on a childhood photo. “That’s me again.” Oswald said, pointing to the child in the photo, who had another little boy tied up beside him. “And my poor stepbrother.” He made a fake pout and continued through the book.

“Jonathan Crane,” He said. “He wet himself.” He giggled, his mother joining in. “It was so funny.”

Another page. The first girl in the book. “Sofia Falcone,” He said with a grimace. “Boring!”

Jim tightened his jaw and stared straight ahead, tried not to think of how many people died because of Oswald’s jealousy. Tried not to think of what would happen to him once Oswald had his fun.

“Oh, the one that got away.” Oswald said, running his fingers across a final flier. “Edward Nygma." A long pause. "He’s probably dead by now.” Gertrud nodded.

“And look!” He opened to the last page and Jim saw his own yearbook photo staring up at him. “That’s you!” He said, smiling at him. Jim gave no response.

Oswald’s mouth twisted into a bitter frown and he slammed the book shut, crossed his arms. He looked to his mother and perked up.

“I’m ready to draw on him now, Mommy.”

* * *

Spit and sweat dribbled down his chin, sliding over his chest and stinging. Oswald stood proudly before him, a bloody knife in his fist.

“Oh, your drawing gets better every time, Oswald.” Gertrud exclaimed, holding her sons arm. Oswald smiled down at Jim, admiring his artwork. A bloody, gaping _O.C._ carved into his chest, a large heart encircling it. The wounds were deep and thick; Jim could barely feel his chest.

“Throw it.” Oswald said, and his mother began flinging table salt into Jim’s wounds. Jim screeched in pain, thrusted his head back.

“Not too much!” Oswald said, almost smiling. “It’s supposed to be bad for you.” Gertrud handed Oswald the salt and he unscrewed the cap, smiled down at Jim, threw it directly into his bleeding cuts.

Jim howled in pain, shaking and thrusting. His vision went blurry and his head spun as flashes of Oswald carving into his chest replayed.

It took him a minute to realize they were yelling at him. The pain was so intense he could barely hear. Everything sounded distorted, like it was being played underwater. It was a hard, bloody kind of pain, like tearing a knife through a gut and unspooling the insides. Selecting the heart as the crown jewel.

 _We can’t hear you!_ He could barely make out. Both of them, together, repeating it. _We can’t hear you, we can’t hear you, we can’t hear you._

* * *

“And this year’s Queen of the Dance is– “

Oswald drummed his hands on the table, beamed up at his mother as she pretended to read from a note card. She gave a fake gasp and smiled at her son. “Oswald Cobblepot!”

He gasped, over-dramatically, cupped his face in his bloody hands and smiled like he was about to cry. Gertrud blew a noise maker and Oswald followed, then looked over at Jim.

“Blow your whistle, King.” He said sounding almost hurt that Jim didn’t do so already.

“Blow your whistle, King!” He said again, sterner, then turned to his mother. “Mommy!”

Gertrud raised the hammer and Jim forced a tiny puff of his breath into the noisemaker, resulting in a pathetic squeal.

Oswald looked to his mother and smiled. “Crown me.”

The ‘crown’ was a piece of purple tissue paper cut into the shape of a tiara that Oswald refused to take off. Jim got one, too, a blue one, and Gertrud took a photo of them; Jim slumped forward, his shirt still open to reveal Oswald’s art, Oswald standing beside him with one hand on his shoulder.

* * *

He made Jim dance with him, the two of them slowly swaying as Jim trembled in pain. Gertrud stood on a chair behind them, sprinkled purple glitter over their heads, Jim’s feet held in place with two kitchen knives shoved deep through the flesh.

Oswald smiled at him with that expectant smile. “When I finally find my prince,” he said. “This is the song we’ll dance to at my wedding.” He nodded to himself. Another handful of glitter. “I really thought you would be my Prince, Jim Gordon. Just like I thought Edward Nygma would. But you’re not. You’re not my Prince.” His expression grew cold.

“You’re just another frog!” He slammed his foot down on one of the knives, shoved it in somehow deeper, and Jim screamed. He didn’t expect to even have the energy to scream. Oswald looked at him with disgust and disappointment: _How dare you not love me back!_

He abandoned his dance with Jim and reached a hand towards his mother. “Dance with me, Mommy.” He said.

Softly, Gertrud took his bloody hand in hers, and he lead her away, leaving Jim alone.

Jim watched Gertrud hold her son, hold him not like a mother should hold a child, and sway back and forth with him, the two of them completely distracted.

Gertrud cupped her sons face in her hand, stroked his cheek and smiled at him, like he was the most important thing in her whole world.

* * *

“You’re my first drilling.” Oswald said as his mother placed a power drill in his hands. He smiled at Jim, excited, like a child.

“Remove the Kings crown, please, Mommy.”

Gertrud stood behind him, threw his paper crown off and held his head in place. Oswald pressed a button and the drill began to whir; Jim struggled as the spinning nail got closer to his forehead.

Oswald had only made one tiny dent when the drill swerved to the left, away from Jim.

“You need to push harder, darling.” Gertrud said. Oswald nodded. “Two hands.”

He did as he was told, held the drill with stiff hands, inching it closer to his forehead again.

The nail broke his skin and everything he’d felt up until then felt like nothing at all. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. He was certain he was going to die.

“Stop!” Gertrud said, then clasped her hands together, looked at her son with pride. “Perfect.”

She handed him a pitcher of water, nodded at him. Oswald lifted it, tipped the spout towards the hole in Jim’s forehead.

Hot water splashed down and landed on Gertrud’s forearm; she yelped and recoiled in pain.

“Sorry!” He said, covered his mouth with his free hand.

Gertrud groaned. “You have to give it a bigger tip, darling.”

Oswald nodded, stepped closer to Jim. For the first time, he saw a bit of hesitance on his face.

The spout was inches from his face when Oswald pulled it away. “The hole’s too small. Can you please make it bigger?” He whined.

Gertrud did as he asked, drilling deep enough to pierce his skull. Tendrils of smoke floated up from the drill.

Jim screamed and fought against his restraints, felt the ropes snap, lunged forward, whacking the drill away.

They both tumbled to the floor and the nail of the power drill sliced across Gertrud’s face. Jim broke the ropes around his ankles and yanked the blades from his feet.

Oswald was pressed up against the wall, watching the whole thing in horror.

“Mommy?”

Gertrud turned to him, a bloody slit marring her face.

“Mommy!”

Jim lunged at her, drove one of the knives into her throat, stabbing over and over.

He heard Oswald scream behind him, like an animal, and felt him leap onto his back, trying to strangle him, bite him, gouge out his eyes.

He pinned Jim to the floor, tried to choke him when Jim flipped them, slammed Oswald against the floor. He yelped, heaved. Jim brought his fist down and slammed it into Oswald’s nose once, twice, until blood streamed down his face and he lay unconscious on the floor.

He jumped up and lunged at Gertrud one last time, shoved her backwards, sending her tumbling down the basement steps, landing with a cold thud.

There was silence for a solid ten seconds before Oswald grabbed him by his lapels, tried to push him down the stairs.

“You killed my Mommy!” He shouted, sobbing, grabbing Jim’s shoulders and pushing him down the stairs. He landed on the basement floor and he felt his bones crack, felt all the wind leave him.

“Mommy!” Oswald shouted, a sobbing mess as he stared down at his mother’s body. Screaming, he threw the hammer down the stairs, then the flashlight with it, banged his hands against the floor. “Mommy–“ He sobbed, huddling in on himself.

Jim shut his eyes and tried to stay awake. He heard the basement door creak shut, and then he was in complete darkness.

* * *

He’d been huddled in the corner, switching the flashlight on and off when the door opened again. Oswald stared down at him, his face empty and blank.

“I’m going to your house now. I’m going to stab your mother in the neck,” He gave a breathy laugh. “Just like you did to _my_ Mommy.” Jim noticed a knife in one hand, the scrapbook in the other.

“And then? Then I’ll stab Lee Thompkins in the heart. Just like you– “ He pointed the knife at Jim. “Did to me.” And then pointed it at himself.

“Goodbye, Jim Gordon.” He slammed the door shut, and Jim heard his feet scuff across the floor and out of the house.

* * *

Lee remembered Jim telling her that Oswald Cobblepot asked him to the dance. She remembered giggling, because Oswald Cobblepot was a tiny little nerd with a fucked-up leg who talked to birds, and that was all she’d ever thought of him.

She pressed her foot on the gas, sped down the road. The air was crisp and cool, frost still coating the grass.

She slammed on breaks when something smacked into her windshield.

Pieces of paper floated down around her car. She leaned forward, tried to see them closer, looked to her left. She’d barely even turned her head to the right when Oswald was lunging at her, a knife in his hand, blood soaking his face and clothes.

She scrambled out of the car, shoved him off, and he brought the knife down against the pavement. She kicked him across the face, pulled herself up, and ran.

* * *

Jim had his head in his hands, rubbing dried blood from his face. His whole body had gone numb, the basement cold and dank. He switched the light on again, aimed it up at the door. The door with multiple bolts on the outside that he’d attempted to bust through multiple times.

He thought about Lee and hoped she was safe, but knew she wasn't. He thought about what would’ve happened if he’d accepted Oswald’s invitation.

He aimed the flashlight across the floor, avoided Gertrud’s bloody corpse. The hammer Oswald threw laid abandoned in the corner. Jim blinked at it, wondered if the back of it could take the nails out of the door hinge.

* * *

He was speeding down the road in Gertrud Kapelput’s truck when he saw a figure in the road. He swerved when he realizes it was Lee, and slammed on breaks when he realized he’d just hit Oswald Cobblepot with his own mother’s stolen car.

Lee climbed in, gasped at the bloody mess he was, grabbed his face in her hands and pulled him close.

A metallic clanking pulled them out of their happy reunion.

Oswald Cobblepot was very hard to kill.

He put the car in reverse, slammed his foot on the gas. Oswald crawled across the road, held himself up with his knife. Blood was streaming down his face, pouring from his nose, and one of his wrist bones stuck out, his hand twisted backwards. He snarled, like an animal.

Oswald looked up, let out one pained breath, before his mother’s car smashed against his head, snapping his neck backwards and leaving a bloody smear.

**Author's Note:**

> what am i doing? i have no idea but i'm having fun. go watch this movie, it's great. and forgive all the errors in this bc i essentially wrote it in one day.  
> oh, and sorry to all the residents of gotham who i either tortured or killed. oops.


End file.
